A Hundred Voices Singing
by Superkoi
Summary: One year after the strike, the newsies seem to have forgotten where they put their courage. And now they need it more than ever. Collection of oneshots, no pairings.
1. Prologue

_Back then it was so easy to pick up the pieces and restart life from where it had left. _

_We were so strong and so brave. We could do anythin'. _

_We faced down the paper prices and evil Pulitzer. __The only thing impossible was gettin' through a date with Sarah. _

_Where did all that go? When did we lose what made this so easy? _

_How can we just pick up the pieces this time? _

_What happened to the group who could face any challenge? _

_Found their voices and stopped the presses? _

_What happened to the group who defeated the powerful? _

**A/N: My first Newsies fic! I love that movie. The characters are amazing and... I could go on and on. Anyway, this is just something that crossed my mind. I've made a promise to myself that I'm going to try to stay in-character as much as possible with these Newsie fics, 'cause the characters are too awesome to change. Anyway, these are basically a bunch of one-shots in all the character's point of views. They all take place one year after the strike. Enjoy! R&R! **


	2. Desire: Mush's Story

**Desire: Mush's Story**

Have I really walked all this way? As I look back behind me, I can barely see Manhattan at all. With a sigh, I adjusted my papers that I kept balanced on my shoulder. An icy breath of air blew out of my mouth and floated around my lips until it finally disappeared among the crisp, winter air.

Winter is always better than summer, in my opinion. I personally find it easier to warm up than to cool down. Maybe I should kick myself. 'Cause winter is here (and in full blast, none the less) and I can't even remember the last time New York faced a winter this cold and brutal.

Maybe it's just the freezing temperature distorting my brain, but I feel like Skittery today. It sounds kind of weird when I say it plainly like that, but I'm in one of those 'Skittery moods'. I'm pretty sure everyone has them every once and awhile. I even told Blink today while we were waiting in line to get our papes that I felt like Skittery today and he knew exactly what I was talking about. So, obviously, he's no stranger to the concept. Or maybe he just said that to make me feel better... That's a very good possibility.

Back to the 'Skittery mood' thing. It's basically like having a bad day and, boy, am I ever having a bad day! I don't know what it is, but I woke up miserable, which is weird for me. I got out of bed... actually, I _fell _out of bed and started getting dressed. I got soap in my eyes when I was washing my face, I lost one of my boots and spent at least 30 minutes trying to find it, and because I wasted all that time, I missed breakfast so now I'm really hungry. And I'm already about three sizes too small for my pants which used to fit me just fine.

A gusty blast of air blew right into me and I shivered from the cold that swept through my body. Another blast followed as soon as the first one died down and that one nearly blew my hat off. I kept walking, though, every now and then shouting out a headline even though I could feel my voice cracking from yelling to people all day, and the cold air wasn't helping my throat. It's a wonder that I haven't already lost my voice. I walked in silence for awhile, regreting that I hadn't taken up Blink's offer to go selling with him today instead of insisting on going alone. I guess I didn't want to depress him all day, me being in my Skittery mood and all. Blink always seems happy to be living each day and that's probably why we usually go selling together. When you catch me on a good day, which is basically every other day but today, I'm in a good mood. Or at least I pretend to be if I'm actually not. Sometimes I can fool myself if I try hard. The way I see it, if you don't live each day like you want to, then there's no point in living, is there?

Besides, selling with Blink gives me someone to talk to, also. Maybe I should kick myself again for not going with him. Maybe I should also make a list for things to kick myself about. Finally, I stopped walking and stared up at the sign that was posted beside me. It was large and blue and written in black letters it read: "Welcome to Harlem!"

Wow. I _have _walked a long way. I already made it to Harlem! I usually only sell papes in Manhattan 'cause that's where I live, but since I'm here I guess it can't hurt to sell a pape or two to some Harlem folk. I actually know the Harlem area pretty well for a Manhattan newsie. My mama was from Harlem, so I used to come here a lot when I was younger and look around, so it's not like I'll get lost or anything if I sell around here. On the other hand, if I happen to run into some Harlem newsies, they'll wonder what I'm doing in their territory. And from what I've heard, those Harlem newsies are bad news... I guess it won't be a problem if I don't stray too far from the Harlem sign. That way, if I see some Harlem newsies I can just run back onto Manhattan grounds, right?

"Single mother from Manhattan births ten children! Only-- Whoa!" As I walked along the sidewalk, shouting out the most interesting headline I could find, I must've stepped on some ice because the next thing I knew, I found myself looking up at the gray sky on my back, papers scattered everywhere around me.

_Cripes. _I'm really having a bad day. Ow... that hurt. I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly, feeling my warm breath around my face for only a second. I feel really helpless. So helpless, in fact, that I think I'll just lie here on the ground, not even caring about what people might think when they see a young boy on his back with newspapers practically burrying him along the street. I don't care... What's wrong with me? If I were acting normal, I'd get up and laugh at myself. I hope this Skittery mood doesn't last long. I hope that-- Huh?

My eyelids snapped open only to find a curious-looking pair of brown eyes staring down into my own. The sudden meeting surprised me and I let out a small yelp of shock. The pair of eyes jumped back. Scanning my own brown eyes from side to side, I forced myself to get up and brush myself off. Standing to my right was the owner of the eyes that had startled me. It was a small boy who was probably no older than seven. He had a pudgy face and an adorable button nose that was a rosy red color from the cold. He was bundled in a jacket, scarf, and many other clothes items including a hat that pushed down his red hair so that it smoothed against his forehead. He was short, about half my height and I'm one of the more 'smaller' newsies in Manhattan. He smiled up at me, showing off his missing front tooth. Aw... I love little kids.

"You okay, mistah?" The boy asked. I squatted down to his height and smiled at him. I almost forgot about my Skittery mood. _Almost. _

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just slipped is all." I stood up straight again and started to collect my fallen papes. The little boy didn't run off like I expected him to. He lingered around me and even picked up a pape or two for me.

"What's your name?" The boy asked after awhile.

"Call me Mush." I told him, straightening my paper stack. The boy sniffled and repeated my name a few times as if to memorize it. "What's yours?"

"Call me Jamie." He said, mimicking my voice which was a bit lower than his. I chuckled and lifted my papes back onto my shoulder. "When I get older, I wanna be a newsie."

My smile dropped for a moment. He _wanted _to be a newsie? I tried to think of a million different reasons to tell him why he shouldn't be one, but then I looked down at his admiring little face. It was really adorable and the essence of innocence. I couldn't tell him no if it's what he wants. Although I can't imagine why...

"That's neat. Maybe we can be selling partners sometime." I told him joyfully. Jamie grinned widely, flashing his toothless smile yet again. He was about to say something else when we both heard a desperate voice calling out through the streets.

"Jamie! Jamie, where are you, dear?" We turned around to see a woman walking briskly down the street, her face nearly traumatized. She spun around and called again, while I looked down at Jamie. He stared at the woman with wide eyes. Suddenly, the woman gasped. "Jamie!"

She bolted toward us and scooped up Jamie in one fluid motion. I stepped aside while the lady attacked Jamie with kisses and hugs. For some reason, I got this empty feeling in my heart just then. The woman turned around to look at me.

"Oh, thank you so much for finding my boy, young man." She said to me, relieved. I smiled warmly at her as she swayed with Jamie in her arms.

"Nothin' doin', ma'am." I replied politely. With that, she dug in her pocket and held out two bits. My mouth hung open kind of stupidly for a moment and I looked up at her, making sure it wasn't a trick.

"Please, I insist." She assured, noticing my uncertain expression. I hesitantly held out my hand and she placed the coin down with a smile. I tried to get at least half of a smile. She began walking away with Jamie after calling to me, "Thank you again."

I waved to them as they walked away, the lady still hugging Jamie tightly. I looked down at the coin and got a strange feeling inside my chest. My eyes started watering and I didn't know why. Eventually, I walked to the nearest bench and sat down, head leaning over my legs. I must be sick. I felt a small tear escape my eye and hit the hard ground. Why am I crying? This is so weird. My chest began throbbing and more tears started streaming down my cheeks. What is wrong with me? I shut my eyes, trying to sooth the stabbing pain, but all I could see were images running through my head. Images of... my mother? That was definitely my mama. She's beautiful. I keep a picture of her under my pillow at the lodging house and I've had it since I first got there. I've memorized everything about my mama. But... I've never missed her before. Well, of course I always miss her, but I've never really dwelled on it until now. I've always wanted a normal, nice, loving family of my own.

I don't know what happened to my papa, but when I was four, my mama dropped me off at the lodging house to live. Kloppman told me that he knew my mama and agreed to let me stay at the lodging house and become a newsie when I was old enough so I could pay rent. I wonder why she left me. Did she not want me? When will she come and get me again? All I can do is wait until she comes back for me, I guess. I really miss her, though.

I looked up at the sky and a wet snow flake landed on my nose. I wiped away my tears as I felt it melt quickly against my skin. More and more flakes piled around the city and I decided to start heading back to Manhattan. The others are probably worried, anyway. I got up and gave a strange sort of chuckle. I bet all these Harlem people must think I'm nuts. Lying on the ground, crying on the bench. I better get out of here. With that, I started walking past the Harlem sign and back to Manhattan, my home. My home... Hah, I almost fooled myself for a second.

_Almost._

**A/N: Awww! Poor Mushy! I wuv him so. He just needs a sweet family to love and love and love him. :( Anyway, I'd really like some feed-back on my characterization. Good? Awesome? Bad? Horrid? I'd really like to hear your honest opinion. Thanks for reading! Next chapter is soon to come! **


	3. Regret: Jack Kelly's Story

**A/N: Here's the long-awaited and procrastinated second chapter to the **_**Voices Singing **_**series. This one stars our very own Jack Kelly. Enjoy and sorry about the wait!**

**Regret: Jack Kelly's Story**

The most glorious sound in the whole world echoed through the entire city. I paused, allowin' me to listen to every single melodic note that sounded. With this satisfaction, I smiled. My entire body suddenly felt strangely warm despite the cold weather. This is the power of the train whistle. Every day at noon, the trains at the station take off, leavin' this life behind and headin' toward bigger and better sights and that whistle is just callin' my name, tellin' me to climb aboard and start my new life in the direction of Santa Fe.

I picked up my pace and trudged down the street, keepin' my eyes on the ground. It's true; the train whistle is the most magnificent sound this world could ever create, but lately my heart hasn't been warmin' like it usually does. If anything it freezes. Then this odd pressure starts pressin' against my lungs and I can barely feel my legs. I feel sick to my stomach and that's when I realize that that friendly whistle has suddenly betrayed me. It has robbed me of my comfortin' feelin' and leaves me in a state where functionin' like a normal human is nearly impossible.

How could this be? Thoughts start fillin' my head that come from no where and no matter what I do, I can't shut up the questions in my head. Is that train going to Santa Fe? Do I have enough time to make it to the tracks and catch that train? And most importantly, do I regret everythin' that happened after the strike?

What a stupid question. Of course not. I don't regret anythin'. I've always been told that everythin' happens for a reason, so this is no exception. Besides, it was my choice. I chose not to go to Santa Fe. I chose to stay here in Manhattan and sell papes for years and years and…

"Jack! Hurry up!"

And there is the reason why I chose to stay. David-fuckin'-Jacobs. His head of curly, brown hair bounced toward me down the street. He stood only a few inches away from me, breathin' into his mitten-covered hands in an attempt to warm up faster. I have to admit, the boy's a wimp. I'm only wearin' my normal clothes and I'm fine while this kid is shiverin' his ass off even with his little mommy-made mittens. How pathetic.

"C'mon, my mother says that we need to be back by 12:30. Les isn't feeling well and she needs some extra help. Wanna stay for lunch?"

I really shouldn't take all this out on him. Dave is my friend, probably my best friend. Even though there is a bit of jealousy in me toward him (just 'cause he's got a family), he still always invites me to stay for meals. I notice he's starin' at me, waitin' for a reply. My eyes open wider.

"Sure,"

"You okay? You're not very chatty today," He points out. I glance down at my stack of papes. By now I usually would've sold more than half of 'em already, but I still have about the same as when I started the day. David knows me too well. He knows as well as I do that right now I should be screamin' like a maniac, hawkin' the headlines like nobody's business.

"I'm fine," I lie. Dave shrugs and motions for me to follow. I continue to march solemnly down the street as the whistle's tune fades into nothin'. My heart instinctively sinks.

"Mama, we're home!" David calls out as he walks into the apartment. I follow him in and shut the door behind me as Mrs. Jacobs tackles David with hugs and a kiss.

"Oh, thank goodness you boys are home. David, why don't you start boiling the soup, it's on the stove already. And Jack, would you go see Les? He's been waiting to see you all day." Mrs. Jacobs rushes through her words. I nod at her and smile a smile I knew looked nothin' like my normal grins. I walked through the curtain that blocked off Les's bed and saw the little kid sleepin'.

"You awake, kid?" I whisper. He lets out a small moan as his round eyes flutter open slowly.

"Jack…?" He asks shakily. Boy, this kid sure is sick. His cheeks are as red as cherries and his skin is pale like a ghost.

"You feel alright?" I ask. He nods proudly, tryin' to look like nothin' is wrong.

"I feel fine," He informs me. He coughs and that proves otherwise.

"Just relax, Les," I tell him. "Lunch is almost ready." His eyes start closin' again and soon he's fast asleep. Gently, I walk out of the curtained room and back into the kitchen. Dave is boilin' soup and his mom is runnin' around, settin' the table with an extra plate. For me.

"Take a seat, Jack. We're almost ready." Mrs. Jacobs offers. I gladly slide into my usual seat, right beside David. It's times like these when that train whistle seems dull and insignificant. Then all my doubt drifts away. A real smile appears on my face.

"Where's Sarah?" I ask, makin' small talk. David starts pourin' the soup into bowls.

"She's walking home from work with my dad today. They have similar lunch break schedules." Dave tells me. I nod knowingly as the thought of Sarah appears in my head. She's the other reason I stayed. A beautiful girl with a beautiful smile…

"We're home!" Her voice sounds in the doorway and her father follows her inside. My head automatically turns in her direction.

"Just in time," Mrs. Jacobs gives a kiss to Mr. Jacobs and her daughter. "Lunch is just ready."

Sarah shrugs off her jacket and hangs it up neatly before smilin' shyly in my direction. "Hi, Jack."

I smile back. "Hi,"

"Nice to see you again, Jack," Mr. Jacobs shakes my hand with his good arm. "How's selling going?"

"Fine, sir," I answer as he takes a seat across from me. David appears by the table, puttin' bowls of soup down on each table mat.

"Sarah, would you go give this bowl to Les?" Mrs. Jacobs asks. Sarah nods and takes the bowl behind the curtain. Once she returns, everyone takes a seat and Mr. Jacobs begins prayer.

"Bless us, O Lord, for these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Help us to be mindful of all our blessings, and the needs of those who have less. Amen."

"Amen," Says everyone at the table. I whisper the word softly after everyone else, starin' into my golden colored soup aimlessly. They all begin eatin', but I keep repeatin' that prayer in my mind.

"…the needs of those who have less"? I know that everyone at that table thought of the newsies durin' that part. They thought of me. They thought of poor, ignorant Jack Kelly. A street rat that's doomed to a life-long hell in New York, never to see what the world has to offer. Never to feel the soft sand of Santa Fe or watch the rollin' tumble weeds brush across the earth. And they're right.

My eyes shoot upward as I hear somethin' in the distance. That familiar melody floats into the apartment and tickles my ears. My heart starts beatin' faster. The train whistle? Why is a train leavin'? It's only supposed to whistle once every day at noon.

"Is that the train?" Mrs. Jacobs asks no one in particular. "How strange. I thought it only sounded at noon."

"Didn't you hear?" Mr. Jacobs responded. I listened in. "Apparently traveling by train has become more popular. The city has decided to send two trains every day. One at noon, and one at 12:30."

"Is that so?" Mrs. Jacobs sounds interested. "Well, I think…"

…What? _Two _trains? In one day? _Two _chances for me to run off to Santa Fe? _Two _times in a day where a sound rips through my skull and throbs against my brain? I started gettin' that feelin' again. The one that makes me want to throw up from regret. Suddenly, that soup don't look so appetizin' no more.

"Jack, are you feeling alright?" David asked, placin' a hand on my shoulder. Quickly, I shrug it off. That only makes me feel worse. Without sayin' a word, I scoot out of my chair, turn away from their worried faces and leave through the door. I hear Dave call out my name just as the door closes behind me, but I don't care. The whistle is long gone, but I can still hear it pulsin' through my entire body, causin' me to ache.

I jog down the stairs of their apartment buildin' and start down the street, forgettin' about the papes I had left by the door when I came in. I don't even know where I'm goin', but I just need to get away from here. Then it hits me. All the doubt pilin' up in my head finally is pourin' out into facts. I _do _regret everythin' after the strike. I _do _regret not goin' to Santa Fe. I _do _believe that I should see the world and start a new life in Santa Fe. And I _do _think that all that stuff about "everythin' happens for a reason" is high-class shit.

Now I realize what that feelin' is. The feelin' I get when that whistle blows is the feelin' of another dream, another chance, another hope, another wish gettin' destroyed. Broken. Defeated. And that's the worst feelin' in the world.

I suddenly feel very, very cold.

**A/N: I'm really trying to make these as realistic as possible. I'm trying to write about (and describe well) the feelings and problems that the newsies would've actually gone through and thought about after the strike if the movie were real. Comments/criticism is wanted please! **


	4. Fear: Spot Conlon's Story

**A/N: I've been on vacation for a week, so sorry about the not updating thing. Good news is that being away in a new country has brought me many original and interesting story ideas. And let me just say (I know this sounds pitiful, but it's true), usually people don't review my stories very much so I'm not used to people telling me my stories are cool. I just want to thank all the people who review my stories and just read them. You really make my day. I'm so serious. ;) **

**Fear: Spot Conlon's Story**

It's always entertaining to walk down the streets of Brooklyn, the same proud saunter I always do, and watch the young newsies stare in awe of me as I pass them. Their faces show all signs of admiration, shock, and jealousy. In this case, I can't help but smirk down at them, gloating and promoting my importance even more than before.

Some say that this ritual is an ego-booster; others say that my ego couldn't get any bigger even if I tried. No matter how much enjoyment I get out of doing this, there's always a nagging voice in the back of my head that's tempted to shout out: "Stop starin', ya twerps! Don'tcha know that bein' leader is just a bunch of glitz and jazz? You wouldn't last one day in my shoes!" Now if I said this, their little expressions of adoration would vanish and complete fear would take over.

Believe it or not, I, the Great Spot Conlon, was once just like those admiring newsies. Yeah, it's hard to imagine a time where I wasn't the leader of Brooklyn. But there was, and I was nothing but a big loser, thinking and hoping and wishing that when it was my turn to be king, it was everything it was cracked up to be. Boy, was I wrong.

A guy named Spike Conlon used to rule Brooklyn before me. And that same guy just happened to be my big brother. We were polar opposites, me and him. I was small and scrawny while Spike looked like he could eat Pulitzer in one bite and still have room for Weasel for desert. It just looked so easy, being the leader. You get to order people around all day and everyone across New York City knows your name. You were famous. And I knew that one day Spike would be too old to be a newsie any more, and then it was my turn to take the throne.

"One day, Spottie," Spike would take a big puff of his expensive cigar. "You'll be leadin' Brooklyn and everyone'll know you. Glory, Spot. That's what you'll have, a'right?"

Glory, he used to call it. That's just a fancy way of saying 'a living hell'. Of course I was too star-struck and young to understand that at the time. Glory sounded amazing to me right then, and it was all I ever wanted.

"Spike!" A nervous Brooklyn newsie called Twitchy scampered up to Spike's perch one day at the docks. "Queens is comin'!" I sort of knew what Queens was. It was a borough in New York that was led by a violent guy called Jester, which was all I knew at the time. I had heard Spike mention Queens before, and every time he did he would always use the words 'bastards' or 'assholes' soon after in the same sentence.

"How close are they?" He asked, remaining calm. Twitchy inhaled sharply before answering. I watched from beside Spike, eyes wide.

"We'll have to move now if we want to keep Brooklyn to ourselves." Twitchy glanced at me quickly, then back at Spike's intimidating glare. He didn't want to say something bad whenever I was around. Everyone knew how protective Spike was of me. He moved closer to Spike so he could whisper. "They have weapons."

Spike's snarl was low and guttural, enough to frighten me at that time. He curled his thick hands into fists. "Damn bastards… How'd they get weapons?"

"I-I don't know." Twitchy responded, glancing at me again. My eyes were focused on Spike. Even at my young age, I realized what a hard decision this must've been for him. Lose Brooklyn territory or lose half his newsies in a blood-drenching battle with Queens. His eyes had fires raging inside them and I could feel the headache he must've been having.

"Take Spot to my place and I'll go round up the newsies to fight." He grabbed the front of Twitchy's shirt and pulled him off the ground and spoke right in front of his face. "If he's not okay when I get back, you might as well kill yourself before I do."

Twitchy tried to breathe normally before speaking again. "Y-Yes, sir."

"Good," Spike turned to me and gave me a serious look. "Stay out of trouble and don't leave the lodging house. I'll be back before you know it."

I could only nod. Spike was going off to fight Queens and all I could do was stay inside the Brooklyn Lodging House, hoping that things were going well in favor of Brooklyn. I remember watching him walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, leading an army of Brooklyn newsies. Then I sat in the lodging house for a long, long time. It was late at night, but I couldn't sleep. It was then that I thought about glory.

Glory was something Spike had talked so highly of, but he never actually told me what it was. Maybe it meant making decisions or doing the right thing or being a good leader. To this day, I still don't know an official definition, but it seems like something that comes up in every situation for a leader and I'm sure Spike did glory, whatever it was, well.

It was 3:30 in the morning when Twitchy woke me up. I must've dozed off, but when I saw the beaten figure of Twitchy standing over my bunk, I shot up in bed.

"What happened? Did we win? Where's Spike?" I asked quickly. Twitchy looked like he just stepped out of a war movie. His clothes were ripped and caked in mud and some red substance that I hoped wasn't what I thought it was. Twitchy's eyes glowed strangely in the dark and he clutched his hat to his chest.

"Spike… didn't make it, kid." I literally felt my heart stop beating. "We won, but… he got injured real badly and couldn't..." Twitchy knew he shouldn't finish that sentence. He just watched me sitting upright in bed, eyes wide, crickets chirping outside, wondering what I was going to do next. This only meant one thing: From that moment on, I was officially the new leader of Brooklyn. Just like that.

The strange part was that I don't remember crying at all. In fact, I can't remember the last time I cried. I should've been crying, I had every right to. My brother just got killed and I was going to be taking on the duty of ruling Brooklyn at the age of seven with no experience or training. I just remember knowing that nothing was going to be easy from that moment on. And suddenly, being leader didn't seem like something amazing at all. And glory was something I most definitely did _not _want to have.

I grew up teaching myself everything. I learned how to rule Brooklyn and make decisions that would better everyone in the long run. It wasn't an easy job at all, and it made me wonder how Spike managed. No one mentioned him at all after that, at least not around me. Most of the current Brooklyn newsies never knew him, so it's easier to forget all about it. Some newsies don't even know I ever had a brother.

Being leader really _is _all glitz. Every day I'm facing a new challenge and blockade that tests my skills and intelligence. Nothing about it is worth being star-struck over. I'm stuck with the burden of leading all these people. It's all up to me. Everything that happens is based on my decision. If I fail, everyone fails. If I choose badly, everyone suffers. I feel like the burden is going to make me crack one day. Everything is just over-whelming and I'm scared that one day I'm going to make the wrong decision. Then what? I live everyday in fear, masking it expertly with my arrogance and pride. But in reality, I'm scared that I won't live up to everyone's expectations and, most importantly, my brother's. I still don't know what glory is, but I'm pretty sure this isn't it.

So those little newsies can continue to stare and 'ooh' and 'aah', but one day they'll realize what it's like to be leader, and the mighty rein of glory will eventually destroy them all.

**A/N: Poor Spot. He's such a trooper, being leader even though he's scared stiff. Hooray for him! I feel this isn't my best work, but I guess I was trying too hard to make it good. It's hard to make a Spot fic that isn't cliché or anything, and my goal at the beginning of this one-shot was to make it as non-cliché as possible. But halfway through the story I realized that that's quite impossible. Oh well. At least it's not **_**horrible. **_**Review please, give me your take! **


End file.
